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Malevolent Bones
Malevolent Bones is the first encounter in Muri Mortuorum. Enemies *Skeleton Warrior (1235 Gold, 152 XP, 95 Energy, 7 HP) * Zombie Brute (1235 Gold, 152 XP, 95 Energy, 7 HP) Transcript Introduction “It might be a trap,” one of the soldiers said. “Of course it’s a trap, you fool!” Ludwig snarled. “They vant to funnel us through here like lambs to the slaughter.” Rina and the soldiers stood in front of an opening in the macabre structure, where the wall turned inwards at perfect right angles to create a passageway – flanked on either side by skeletal barricades. Their steeds were at a distance, whinnying and shifting their legs, casting frightened glances at the edifice of bones. Only the squires’ hands on the bridles prevented them from bolting. It was clear they’d go no further unless they were pushed and dragged. “Maybe ve should turn back,” another soldier said. The commander rounded on him, his face more beetroot-like than ever. “The freiherr’s detachment is marching on the von Malhavens’ castle as ve speak! It is our svorn duty to meet them from this side and destroy the undead scum! If any other man speaks such cowardice, I’ll have him flogged!” “Your orders, commander?” a sergeant asked. “These valls are made of bone. Bone can be smashed. Varhammers! Bring the varhammers! Ve’ll create our own path.” A few of the soldiers crept towards the barrier. Their hesitating steps and wary glances reminded Rina of the horses. They held heavy hammers in their gauntleted fists – brutal weapons fashioned to break the bodies of armored men. The tallest and burliest among them took the lead, either propelled by greater courage or else compelled by his status among them. She’d seen that warrior in battle, splattering zombie’s heads with his hammer. The other soldiers respected him. And reputation can shackle a man as surely as iron. He paused in front of the wall, several yards further along from the entrance. He planted his steel-shod feet, turned his body, grunted, and swung. “Aaarrgh!” “Gods!” “They’re alive!” “Help him, you fools!” Commander Ludwig’s voice bellowed above the dozens of other cries. The man with the warhammer struggled in the grasp of a dozen skeletal hands, his slabs of muscle straining against their fleshless might. Some had seized his weapon and yanked it to the wall, where its shaft was pressed flat – its mighty head impotent. Others clutched his arms and legs, drawing him towards the bony mass. Another of the hammer-wielding solders lunged towards his comrade. He screamed a wary cry and brought his hammer down on one of the grasping arms. Rina almost felt the powerful swing’s force, the descent of the huge metal weight as it crashed against the skeletal limb. The undead arm exploded, shattered to little pieces. Its hand fell on the churned dirt, lifeless. But even as the soldier began to pull his weapon back for a second swing, more arms emerged from the osseous wall, clawing and snatching at him – forcing him to stumble backwards. He left his hammer in their hands. Other soldiers hacked and pried with their weapons, bashed with their shields, lashed out with kicks from their sabatons. But they too were driven back by grasping undead limbs. Two skeletal hands tore the captured soldier’s helmet away. Another clawed at his face. The man’s head thrashed this way and that as bony fingers gouged his eyes. His mouth opened wide in a scream. Then one of the hands drove its fingers into his gaping maw, silencing him. “Helm him, you cowards!” Ludwig yelled. But the commander himself made no move to intervene. He and the rest could only watch. The soldier’s eyes bulged in his head. The skeletal arm plunged deeper into his mouth. It disappeared to the wrist. Then to the elbow. Dislodged teeth rained from the man’s champing jaws. Blood trickled down his chin. He gave a wordless, muffled moan. His body convulsed, arms flailing, torso shuddering. Then he fell still, a broken marionette only held upright by the skeletons’ grasp. A bloody forearm emerged from his maw. Then a hand, painted crimson, dripping impossible rivers of blood. The head slumped down lifeless in its wake. It was holding his heart. The arm slid back into the wall, still clutching its macabre trophy. The others followed, letting the soldier’s corpse fall to the ground. The plates of his armor issued a sad, heavy clatter. *** “Oi! Get your blooming mitts off me, you daft dead buggers! I’ll-“ A bony hand thrusts itself into Hugh’s mouth. “Release him!” Rakshara shouts. She bashes her shield against the grasping wall, shattering hands and breaking forearms, sending inanimate bone fragments raining down onto the dirt and grass. Your sword flashes with arcane energy as you cut and thrust at the wicked limbs, shearing and smashing. One of the hands tries to grasp the blade, and loses its fingers for its effort. Hugh’s mouth snaps shut. There’s a loud crunch that gives way a moment later to a muffled, sustained grinding and splintering. A tiny wisp of sulfur-scented flame puffs from his lips. His jaws with which you’ve seen him destroy many a prodigious meal, are working away in large, vindictive chomps. The Titaran snorts, and spits. A barrage of charred bone fragments flies from his lips. “Right then…” he says. He chops at the last arm with his cleaver. They heavy weapon cuts clean through both radius and ulna. Then he stands there, brandishing the weapon as though challenging more of the skeletal limbs to emerge and try their luck. None take the bait. “…new plan. Let’s stay away from the bloody walls” “Agreed,” you say. “Listen,” Tessa says. “Hear that?” You nod. The sounds of shuffling feet and clicking bones are coming from nearby in the osseous labyrinth. “These walls aren’t to keep people out,” Rakshara says. “They were surely put in place so that small bands of undead could stand guard over a great area, and ensure that invading armies would have to fight the von Malhavens’ minion on more equal terms. There’s honor in this.” “If you say so, love,” Hugh replies. He spits out one final, incinerated bone. “But this sort of honor leaves a blooming queer taste in my mouth.” Conclusion "Die, oroc!" the skeleton exclaims. His chattering jaw opens and shuts several times in clacking emphasis. He leaps at Rakshara. She catches him by the throat -- or the neck, you amend, still becoming accustomed to the anatomy of this particular battle -- and shakes him from side to side until the sword falls from his grasp. "This one spoke!" she said. "This one will kill! Kill the oroc bitch!" the skeleton says. Rakshara's eyes narrow. She squeezes. Vertebrae crunch in her orange fingers. The creature's skull falls, bounces on the grass, and tumbles away. "Oroc bitch!" it shouts as it rolls. "He's still alive!" Even as she speaks, the skeleton's arms are clawing at hers, trying to free his decapitated body. "Skeletons aren't like zombies," you reply. To emphasize the point, you whirl round and behead the last of the latter. Its body crumples, satisfying your didactic needs. "With those things, you have to keep damaging them until the magic that's keeping them intact can't sustain them anymore." "I see..." Rakshara nods, and appears to mull over that piece of information. Then she hurls the skeleton at the wall. The orange oroc smiles in satisfaction as he falls apart, and the bits lie inert. Then she stoops down to grab her shield, revealing the collection of pulverized bones underneath it -- the remains of two skeletons who tried to deprive her of the crystal bulwark, only to be crushed beneath it when she let it fall free and stomped down on its inner face. "How'd that thing talk without a bleeding tongue?" Hugh asks. "It was living without any organs," Tessa replies, "and that's what's bothering you?" "I suppose..." Hugh shrugs. "Well, at least skeletons don't try to eat your brains." Category: Muri Mortuorum